But several hours in, the date has already far exceeded my expectations. We haven’t run out of things to talk about during the car ride or our tour through the Bigfoot Museum; our conversation ranging from favorite shows and movies to a lively debate about the stupidest thing each of us did as a kid.
For the record, I think I won.
Noelle’s pick was when she was eight and decided to jump off the porch roof holding an umbrella, Mary Poppins style. “Luckily, it was only about ten feet above the ground,” sherecalled, “and the umbrella actually did slow me down a little. So I didn’t get hurt. But my dad was so mad. I couldn’t have dessert for a week as punishment.”
My dumbest move happened when I was nine, when a couple of my friends and I took advantage of an open manhole cover to go exploring in the sewers. We’d just watchedTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, to be fair, so the appeal made sense at the time. Unfortunately, we didn’t think about the whole getting out part, and we ended up walking a mile through the sewers before finally getting rescued by the fire department.
As we head into Government Camp, a small mountain community on the way to the Tamanawas Falls Trailhead, several restaurants and inns line the road on either side. Just up ahead on the right, an alpine-style building has a sign out front that announces,The Best Beer and Pizza on Mount Hood.
My stomach, which is used to eating lunch by now, rumbles. Loudly.
Noelle laughs. “I told you we could have gotten something to eat on the way here.”
“I wanted to make sure we had time to get everything in,” I reply. “And there wasn’t much of a selection where the museum was. It seemed like a better idea to wait until we got here, since this is where most of the travelers stop.”
Noelle scans our surroundings. “Well, it looks like we’ve got some choices. Where would you like to stop?”
“Where wouldyoulike to eat?” I parry back. Because while I planned the date, I don’t want Noelle to feel like I’m trying to control everything about it.
“Well…” She taps her finger against her lips as she thinks. “Idolove pizza. And didn’t you say that you’re on a quest to try all the craft breweries in Oregon?”
“I did mention that,” I agree. Angling my chin at the building I noticed as we came into town, aptly called Mount Hood Brews,I add, “What do you think of stopping there? Looks like they do pizza and beer.”
Noelle smiles at me. “That sounds perfect.”
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a worn wooden table set in front of one of the large picture windows with a view of Mount Hood rising above the treeline. In the corner of the room, a low flame sets off sparks in the stone fireplace. Though it’s mid-July, the elevation makes it much cooler on the mountain, so the added warmth is welcome.
While we wait for our server to come back with our drink order, Noelle looks out the window, smiling softly as she takes in the view. Then she turns her gorgeous amber eyes back towards me. “This is great, Webb. First the Bigfoot museum, and now eating on the mountain… I’m really glad I came.”
Some of the worry I’ve been carrying slips away. I could tell Noelle was on the fence about it when I asked her out. Part of me kept expecting her to call to cancel, or worse yet, I’d arrive at the diner this morning to pick her up and she wouldn’t be there waiting.
In the past, if a woman stood me up—not that they ever did, but hypothetically—I doubt I’d have cared that much. I might have been slightly annoyed at the inconvenience, but that’s it.
With Noelle, though… It’s different.I’mdifferent.
If Noelle had stood me up, I would have been disappointed. A lot.
“I’m glad you came, too,” I tell her. Then I take a risk by covering her hand with mine for a moment. “This has been a lot of fun.”
Just as she’s about to reply, our server appears with two beer flights and a bowl of homemade potato chips. Once he sets them down, he asks, “Do you know what you’d like to order? Or do you need some more time?”
I inwardly wince as Noelle pulls her hand away from mine.
Shit.
I’m not used to taking things slowly.
I want to touch her, but I don’t want to scare her away.
She glances at the menu on the table, then says, “The bacon and cheese with the stout reduction sounds good. What do you think, Webb?”
“If that’s what you’d like, let’s get it.” Turning my attention to our server, I add, “Could we get one bacon and cheese, and one hot honey with pepperoni?”
He nods. “Sure thing. I’ll put the order right in.”
Once he’s gone, Noelle inspects her flight of sample-sized glasses. She picks the stout first, then takes a sip. I follow suit, trying my sample of stout along with her. It tastes like coffee and chocolate with a hint of molasses, and as I swirl the liquid in my mouth, I mentally score it from one to ten.
By the time I decide—it’s a solid seven, maybe even an eight—I realize Noelle is watching me with an amused expression. “Do I want to ask what you’re doing?”
